Wrong Side of Heaven
by LittleFlatts
Summary: "I trust Deborah Martin," Barney said sternly. "Yeah, see, I don't. She's an unhinged alcoholic, and she's now off the CIA's leash! And you want to aid and abet her!" Christmas fumed. Sequel to Sound of Madness.
1. Chapter 1

Deb watched the green country side roll by out the window of the SUV.

"Been a long time since we were here," Mickey drawled from the driver's side. He wore a black t shirt, showing off the rolling script of his tattoos. Some were in Gaelic, some were in Latin. Deb knew they were all prayers and Scripture

"A lifetime ago," Deb agreed softly. He glanced over at her with his too pale eyes. They were like shards of ice, framed with dark lashes.

"Ye alright, Debbie?" his voice was softer. She turned away, averting her gaze to the window.

"I really just want a drink right now, Mick," she admitted. His face remained impassive and he trained his eyes on the road. "I keep seeing their faces… Every time I close my eyes. It's… It's killing me inside, Mickey."

He reached over and his pale hand wrapped around her tan one.

" _He gives strength to the weary_ ," Mickey told her. She grimaced deeply.

"God doesn't give a shit about me, Mickey," her voice was sharper than she intended.

"If ye say so, lass," he shrugged. She shot him a venomous look.

"Look, I know you were a priest, and that Catholicism is just ingrained in your skull, but I have _never_ had a reason to believe that there was any higher being looking out for me or anybody else in this place," Deborah said firmly, her accent twisting her words. Mickey gave her a weighted look, but said nothing.

"I won't bring it up again, then, lass," he told her evenly. Deborah deflated.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped," she told him. He flashed her a not so sane grin.

"I know yer lack of booze is makin' ye grouchy, Debbie. Just try ta get your head together. We're going ta need it for this job."

* * *

"I miss Drummer," Deb told him as she dropped into the desk chair. The CIA had given them the run of a safehouse about sixty miles outside of Belfast. "This fucking file is _barren_."

Mickey set a mug of tea down in front of her and leaned over her shoulder to scan the file.

"Lord's Name. Sons of Mary have them?"

"What, ya know 'em?" Deb looked up at him. Mickey grimaced.

"They're a small, elite group. Members of the Church, lot of influence with the Army," Mickey said gravely. Deb's eyes flashed inquisitively at him. He gave her a sheepish look. "I was brought up in their group."

"You being back here going to stir up shit?" Deb asked slowly. She had never asked him about the details of his departure from the IRA.

"This job may put me in bad graces with some of the lads," Mickey admitted.

"I can handle it," Deb told him. He gave her a skeptical look.

"I'm a big lad, Debbie. This is our job, and they took those children from their parents," Mickey said sternly. She gave him a mild smile.

* * *

The dew of the grass seeped into her knit jacket and dark wash blue jeans. She was lying on top of a hill, surveying their target as night fell.

"Ok, kids are in the southwest corner," Deb said as she looked at the little cottage through the thermal binoculars.

"How many guards?" Mickey asked from beside her.

"Three. Two are near the kids, one is in the northeast corner, by the front door," Deb said.

"We going in guns blazing?"

Deb put the binoculars away carefully.

"No. Too much risk to the kids. We're going to have to be careful, wait for them to go to bed," Deb said gravely.

* * *

The two waited as the fog rolled in and darkness fell like a thick blanket. Mickey dozed, using his jacket for a pillow. Deborah watched the house with her thermal binoculars. The children moved to the second floor of the cottage and laid down. One man stayed on the steps, the other two stayed in the northeast corner.

It was about three in the morning when the figures stopped moving. Deb nudged Mickey in the leg.

"Come on, then, Mick," she said softly, screwing the silencer onto the end of her pistol. "Got one on the stairs, the other two to the left of the door."

* * *

Deb kicked the body off the stairs and headed up. The children were all three awake, huddled together on one bed. The eldest, a girl, had braced herself in front of her brothers. Deb swallowed hard as bile rose in the back of her throat.

"Hey, sweetheart, it's ok. I'm not here to hurt any of you. We're gonna take you back to your parents," Deb said gently. The girl's blue eyes flashed and she stuck her jaw out.

"Why can't we stay here?" she had a clear, strong voice. Deb blinked, suddenly struck dumb.

"Uh… Those men, they took you from your parents…" she trailed off. The girl frowned deeply.

"Only to protect us."

Deb swallowed hard, thinking quickly.

"We can't stay here. Do you have any things you need to pack?"

The girl stood.

"Come on," she told her brothers sullenly. Deb smiled thinly before going back downstairs.

"Move the bodies, now," she hissed to Mickey. He looked up at her sharply.

"What's—"

"Do it. We need to get out of here, and you need to call the IRA."

* * *

"Why isn't Jamie coming with us?" the youngest, a little boy of about nine, asked from the back seat. He had a head full of honey brown curls and big blue eyes.

"They can't tell us, Aiden. They never can," the girl said grumpily, folding her arms over her chest.

"You're Dorothy, right?" Deb was barely keeping her head on straight. _Not right, it's all wrong. What the fuck have we gotten into?_

"Dory. Only my mother calls me Dorothy," the girl stated firmly.

"I'm Deb. This is Mickey. We're going to be looking out for you for a while," Deb promised. _Because there is no fucking way I'm handing you over to the CIA._ _Not until I figure out what the fuck is going on._

"Is our dad ok?" the middle child, twelve year old boy with lighter hair than Dory or Aiden, wondered.

"I'm not sure. We haven't been told anything. What's his name? Mickey can probably go and ask."

The girl scoffed.

"You must be new," she said snidely. Deborah just raised a brow.

"That's right, she is," Mickey agreed, "I haven't had the time ta fill her in. Ye want ta help me out?"

"Our father is Andrew Caine," Aiden said innocently. Deborah frowned.

"The gun dealer. Been selling your bosses guns for the last ten years," Dory said curtly. Deb shot a look to Mickey. His pale hands tightened on the steering wheel.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm back, dears! I don't know why I'm doing this with school starting back up, but I'm vaguely masochistic. I PROMISE that I won't wait a year to update again. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

Deb glanced out the window, watching the sun creep up over the foggy green hills. They had relocated to an old summer cottage that belonged to Mickey's cousin. It had not been used in many years. Everything was coated in a fine layer of dust.

The front door opened and she had her gun on Mickey before he was fully across the threshold.

"Christ, Deb," he hissed, holding his hands up. Deb's green eyes slid over the kids on the pullout couch. The three of them made a pile of tangled limbs. The small twin bed in the bedroom was not large enough for all three of them, and they refused to leave each other. None of them stirred at Mickey's entrance. The Irishman slid the bolt on the door.

"Talked ta Bonaparte," he said quietly, his gray eyes flickering over the kids.

"And?"

"The channels are lightin' up. There's a lot of people who want these kids. It's not jes' the CIA and IRA we've got ta worry about," Mickey warned.

"Why? What makes them so special? Why does everybody want their father?" Deb demanded, running a hand through her black hair. It was greasy and had not been washed since before they arrived in Ireland.

"Andrew Caine," Mickey started towards her. He leaned against the wall on the other side of the window, arms folded across his chest. "International arms dealer. Worked with my pals in the IRA, shipped a lot of firepower from the States. He's got a lott'a blood on his hands," Mickey said gravely.

"He worked Stateside?" Deb asked incredulously. Mickey gave a grim smile.

"Aye, for a time, at least. This guy is on the wrong side of every mafia and criminal organization in the world."

"Except the Irish," Deb hedged.

"Except the Irish… It's more than ye'd think, Debbie. We take care of our own," Mickey remarked. "Anyways, heat started comin' down on his family. The Irish moved them here ta Belfast. Word is, CIA was going to use the kids to force him to come out of hiding."

Deb went ghost white.

"They weren't taken. Jesus _fuck!_ " She ran another hand through her hair, "Those men that we killed, they were _protecting_ them!"

Mickey's eyes slid over the kids warily, making sure they were still asleep.

"We've been played."

"I need to call Drummer. There's no way he would've signed off on this," Deb started.

"No," Mickey said sharply, "Drummer isn't the boss, as much as he may act it. He's not our handler any more, either. If ye call him, you'll be letting them know that we're on to them."

Deb blew out a sharp breath.

"Well, the Irish, then—"

"They won't look too kindly on the fact that we've just killed three of their men," Mickey pointed out.

"We have to try," she said firmly. Mickey didn't tear his eyes away for a long moment.

"Alright, lass. I'll call Father McKinley. See if I can get in front of this," he finally said. Deb pressed a hand to her brow. "Go get cleaned up."

* * *

Mickey was making breakfast for the three kids when she came out of the bathroom, running a towel over her shaggy hair. She moved over to the stove and handed him a plate.

"Any luck?"

"I managed ta talk McKinley down… It helps that we're not turning them over ta the CIA," he said in an undertone. "They're willing ta overlook the bloodshed, but, since the CIA knows the kids are under IRA protection, they can't stay in Belfast."

"Where are they supposed to go?" Deb demanded.

"McKinley's tryin' ta set up another safe house. Until then, they're our problem… And I don't think we should linger here too long, Debbie. Danvers will be callin' us soon to see if we finished the job."

Debbie pressed a hand to her head.

"How are we going to leave? CIA flew us in here."

A muscle in Mickey's jaw jumped.

* * *

"Boss, phone!"

Barney lifted his head from the hood of his truck. Thorn was poking his head out the back of the hangar.

"Who is it?" Barney called, wiping the grease off of his hands and onto his holey blue jeans. The pale man shrugged once.

"I don't know. It's a woman."

 _Reggie?_ Barney quickly pushed that thought away. They were no good for each other. He had called her once since she had left. It was right after Stonebanks had been killed. They had all been on the same team, he figured she had a right to know.

He had only called her with the intention of telling her about Stonebanks, but somehow, he had ended up confiding to her about Molly's mule headedness, about the helplessness he felt with Deborah Martin, and the discord between the team.

She had listened patiently to him.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Reg," he had said tiredly.

"Maybe it's time for you to retire," Reggie suggested calmly. Barney had laughed, but she hadn't been joking.

"Come on, Reg, there's only one way out in this Life."

"I got out," Reggie told him softly. He was silent. "I've gotta go, Barney. Take care of yourself."

Thorn offered him the cell phone and stepped back into the air conditioned hangar.

"Yeah?" Barney spoke into the phone. There was a sharp intake of breath.

"Barney?" A thick, Texan drawl greeted him.

"Deb?" Why was she calling him? They hadn't been in contact since the Karov job.

"I know this isn't fair. I'm sorry, but I don't have anybody else I can trust," as she spoke, her accent thickening her words to the point where it was nearly unintelligible.

"Deb, what's wrong?" he demanded. There was a steadying breath.

"I'm on a job," she said slowly, "It's… It's not right, Barney. I can't turn these kids over. The CIA is going to use them as leverage against their father."

"Where are you?" Barney asked evenly.

"Belfast."

"You've got the kids, then?"

"Yeah… I'm supposed to contact my handler in three hours. Mickey and I are about to high tail it."

"I'll come and get you, you guys can lay low until you figure out a plan," Barney said firmly. She blew out a slow breath.

"Thank you," she told him softly.

* * *

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight. Deborah Martin and her batshit crazy Irishman are _running_ from a CIA contract? And _you_ have decided to aid and abet them?" Christmas demanded as Barney moved about, gassing up the plane.

"Look, I trust Deborah Martin," Barney said patiently.

"See, I don't," Christmas snapped, "She's an unhinged alcoholic, and now she's off the CIA's leash?"

"You don't have to come," Barney pointed out. Christmas set his jaw.

"Who else is going to keep you from getting yourself killed?"

* * *

 **A/N: Started my sophomore year of college. It sucks. This adulting thing should really have an 'uninstall' option.**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

Deb leaned in the doorway of the large church that Mickey had relocated them to. It was deep in the heart of IRA Belfast. Aiden and Gabe were quietly praying in the front pew, and Mickey had gone straight to a confessional.

Deb didn't dare step too far into the church. It felt holy and sacred. She was an outsider, and she didn't belong there.

"So, you work for the IRA, but you're not Catholic," Dory's voice, though soft, still echoed through the cavernous sanctuary.

"What makes ya think that?" Deb glanced over at her. The girl was tall and lanky, she had delicate features with a petulant mouth. Her mousy brown hair was tugged into a sloppy pony tail. She had hazel eyes.

Dory knelt on the last pew, leaning forward over the backrest, hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were all too knowing.

"Besides the fact that you haven't taken five steps away from the door? It's just a building," Dory pointed out, "God isn't going to smite you for sitting down."

"Anybody ever told ya that you're a bit of a wiseass?" Deb cocked a single dark brow. Dory smirked at her.

"All the time," Dory confirmed. "So, why all the secrecy? Why didn't Jamie and Kevin come with us?"

Deb swallowed hard, averting her eyes.

"They don't tell us much, Dory," Deb said, keeping her voice even. Dory's face twisted into a sneer.

"Of course not," she said scathingly, "You're all just soldiers, following orders."

"Pretty much," Deb agreed gravely, folding her arms over her chest. Dory narrowed her eyes at Deb for a brief moment.

"What's going to happen to us now?"

"We're moving ya out of Belfast. Somewhere safe," Deb said firmly. Dory leaned forward, still scrutinizing Deb.

* * *

Barney rapped on the door of the Catholic church, Christmas was on his heels, glancing back at the empty street behind them.

"Well, if it isn't the Englishman. Father told me ye'd be coming!" Mickey announced, throwing open the door to let them inside.

Barney glanced around. Three kids were at the front of the church, their head together. Deb stood off to the side of the door, her arms folded across her chest. She had gotten skinnier since he'd last seen her. She wore dark wash jeans and a black jacket zipped up over a blue t shirt. She stepped forward and shook his hand firmly.

"Thank you, both of you," her burning eyes flitted over Christmas. He shook her hand after Barney had released it.

"Glad to see you're both in one piece," Christmas said gruffly. Barney was still scrutinizing her.

"I knew I was growin' on ye, Englishman," Mickey winked conspiratorially at him. Christmas rolled his eyes.

Deb smirked and glanced over her shoulder to the front pew.

"We should probably get a move on. Ya walk or bring wheels?" she asked, the twisting of her accent betraying her anxiety.

"Got a van out front," Barney gestured with his thumb.

* * *

Agent Francis Galler was pacing his office in London furiously. One job. That was it. He had been a supporting agent for mercenary management for over ten years. He had been bossed around by Drummer and Church alike. He had stood by and watched as the Expendables ran amok, as Deborah Martin drank herself silly and then endangered entire operations.

But when he'd taken over as the agent in charge three months ago, Agent Galler swore it would be different.

This job was the first test of his capabilities as lead agent. Galler thought himself quite clever.

Taking the Caine children would bring Andrew Caine out of the wood work. The arms dealer was on the top of their Most Wanted List. Martin and O'Shea had a way with children. They were like terriers when they were set loose.

He had given them ample time and enough information, but their time for contact had passed many hours ago.

She was not answering his calls and her phone's GPS was stationary near the cottage the Caine children had been staying in.

He had sent a tac team in twenty minutes ago.

"Red One to Base," a voice crackled over the radio. Galler snatched up the radio from his desk.

"Base to Red One," he confirmed, "What's the status? Over."

"We found three bodies in the cottage. We're running facial recognition on them now. Over."

"Describe them. Over."

"Three males, mid thirties—"

Galler exhaled slowly. So it wasn't Martin or the children.

"Any sign of the Caine children? Over."

"Negative."

Galler leaned on his desk.

Deb Martin was AWOL. So was his only leverage against Andrew Caine.

He was so fucked.

* * *

"Barney," Deb greeted, dropping into the co-pilot's seat. Christmas had given up his co-pilot seat so Deb could fill Barney in on the details.

"Hey. How you been?" he had noticed that the smell of booze that always seemed to linger was gone. She shrugged once, drawing her long legs up under her onto the seat.

"It's… It's been rough, Barney, I'm not going to lie," she admitted.

"You've lost weight," he noted. She smiled gravely, looking out the windshield.

"Yeah, I know," she admitted. "We got a new handler…. Drummer's moved up the ladder. This guy… I don't trust him. He's too much like Church," Deb said sourly.

"This the first mission you've run with him?" Barney asked. She nodded distractedly, running a hand through her hair.

"Yeah… The file… I mean, it technically had all the information we needed, but… We were going in blind… We didn't have a reason for the kidnapping, any interested parties involved… Just that those kids had been taken from their parents…"

Barney glanced over at her. She wore a grim expression as she fiddled with the sleeve of her jacket.

"Mickey and I went in, we shot the guards, but the kids… They weren't being held hostage. They were under the IRA's protection. Their father is Andrew Caine. He's a big shot arms dealer."

Barney's mouth tightened.

"The CIA played us. They want the kids as leverage, as far as Mickey and I can figure. Caine is at the top of their most wanted list, according to Bonaparte."

"And the IRA?" Barney pressed.

"Mickey called, talked to an old contact. They're willing to overlook the fact that we just killed three of their guys, but we need to protect the kids until they have a new safe house. Probably helps that Mickey used to run with those boys."

"Where does that leave you with the CIA?" Barney rumbled. She looked away from him. There was along stretch of silence.

"I don't know," she finally muttered. "Drummer would've never signed off on this," she said adamantly.

"Deb," he gave her a long suffering look. She scowled deeply at him.

"Don't gimme that fuckin' look," she snapped.

"Look, everybody in this business knows you shoot first and ask questions later. You're the CIA's hound dog. They sent you out there because you've got these blinders where kids are involved. You weren't thinking about the repercussions."

She sent him a dark look.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing, Deb, but you put too much faith in your bosses, and they would just as soon hang you out to dry."

Deb folded her arms across her chest and sunk back into her seat, a sullen, petulant look on her face.

"They'll kill you, Deb, or throw you into the darkest hole in Gitmo," Barney told her soberly.

"What was I supposed to do, Barney?" she demanded, "Hand the kids over? Christ."

"I'm not saying that," he disagreed. "You did what you had to do, and now you have to deal with the consequences."

"I _know_ ," She ground out. Barney pursed his lips.

"We'll be back Stateside in about eight more hours. You should get some rest."

At her dismissal, Deborah rose and left the cockpit, a scowl on her face.


	4. Chapter 4

"I want you to _find_ them!" Galler snarled to his room full of technicians.

"Sir, they had no other GPS devices on them, except for the company issued phone," one pointed out reasonably.

"What about personal phones? Tablets, computers, _something_!" He pressed his hands to his hips.

"No, sir. They're stationary at their residence in Arizona."

"Any facial recognition hits?" Galler paced up behind one computer technician.

"No, sir." The technician said patiently.

"Alright. Run all known associates. Who would they call for help? Who has the _means_ to extract them?" Galler pressed.

"Sir, the only other team they've ever worked with has been the Expendables. The Karov kidnapping."

"That clusterfuck," Galler shook his head. "Get me locations on his team. Do they have the means to fly over seas?"

"Yes, sir, Ross has an airplane."

"Get a team out there, right now. I want them all accounted for. Keep running facial recognition!"

* * *

"Barney!" As soon as the plane touched down, Thorn greeted them at the hatch. "CIA is en route to the hangar," he barked.

"ETA?" Barney demanded.

"Ten minutes. I've picked up radio chatter. They're doing a head count for the Expendables."

"Deb, take the jeep. Get out on the road. I'll give you a call when it's clear. If it's longer than an hour, call Molly," Barney pressed his phone into her hand.

"Let's go," Deb shepherded Dory and her brothers to the jeep. Mickey followed, pale faced.

* * *

An SUV parked in the lot and two men in black suits exited. Barney watched them carefully as they approached. They had to be absolutely sweltering in the Louisiana heat.

"Mr. Ross. I'm Agent Walter, this is Agent Free."

"What can I help you with?" Barney asked around his cigar. Walter looked around as he pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them in his pocket.

"One of our teams has gone AWOL. We have reason to believe that they might be here in Louisiana."

"Who?" Barney asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"Deborah Martin and Mickey O'Shea. You did a job with them a while back, and we know you have…. Previous ties with Miss Martin."

Barney cocked an unimpressed brow at them.

"I haven't seen them," he stated gruffly. Walter smiled thinly.

"You wouldn't mind if we took a look around, would you, Mr. Ross?"

Barney shrugged one shoulder.

"Be my guest," he told them.

* * *

Barney and the team watched as Walter and Free looked through the hangar, even venturing onto the plan.

"You make a trip recently, Mr. Ross?" Walter asked as he climbed down from the plane. Barney shifted his weight and surveyed him.

"Yep. Went out to Nevada," he said plainly, the lie coming easily. Free whipped out a notepad.

"What were you doing there?" he asked, pencil poised over the paper.

"Visiting Damien Bonaparte," Barney said curtly. There was no need to add more. Over-explaining things left a lot of details to keep straight, and his memory just wasn't what it used to be.

Free glanced up at Walter.

"The liaison for freelancers?" Walter clarified.

"That's right," Barney agreed.

"You don't have any jobs coming your way, Mr. Ross," Walter pointed out. Barney raised a brow.

"I'm not just employed by the CIA," Barney told him curtly.

Walter pursed his lips and nodded.

"Alright. Well, if you see Deborah Martin or Mickey O'Shea, give me a call," he offered his card. Barney took it, not bothering to hide his grimace.

* * *

"Sir, there was no sign of Martin or the children, but Ross recently made a trip with his plane, he says it was to visit Damien Bonaparte, but—" Walter said into his phone.

Galler snorted.

"Bullshit. I want agents posted around the hangar and every residence of the team. I don't want them to _sneeze_ without us knowing!" Galler snarled.

"Sir, I don't have the manpower stationed here that would be necessary for that kind of surveillance," Walter stated patiently.

"I'll send them. Martin has nowhere else to run, other than to Barney Ross, Agent Walter. When she sticks her head up for air, I want her surrounded," Galler said in a low tone.

Walter hesitated, "Sir, do we have orders to kill on sight?"

There was a long pause, and for a brief moment, Walter wondered if the call had disconnected.

"No," Galler's voice finally came, "Not if you can help it. I want her and the children alive."

"And O'Shea?"

"Do what you have to do, Agent Walter. I'll have the men sent out immediately."

Galler ended the call. Walter glanced over at his partner.

"So, what's happening?" Free wondered.

"We're gonna have a rough few weeks," Walter said grimly.

* * *

Deborah pulled the jeep into a narrow, nearly hidden drive. It looked like it had not been disturbed for several years, but under the heavy undergrowth, there were still distinct bare tracks where vehicles had carved their mark.

She carefully eased down the drive until a log cabin came into sight. She put the jeep in park.

"Stay here," she directed over her shoulder at the Caine children, sitting silently in the backseat. None of them looked too disturbed at the sudden flight from the hangar.

 _They're probably used to being spirited away at a moment's notice_ , Deb thought grimly. _That's no way for anybody to live._

"I'll do a perimeter check," Mickey said, easing his pistol out of the holster at his hip.

"I'm going to check the house; Make sure there aren't any squatters," Deb told him as he began to trek off through the brambles.

Deb make her way up to the front door and glanced around. A terra cotta pot, filled with only dirt, sat in a drainage dish. Deb bent over and lifted it. As Molly Booker had promised, a single key laid there.

It took some wiggling, but it unlocked the deadbolt. Deb pocketed the key and drew her pistol, listening hard for any life forms that could be inhabiting the cabin.

Light shone through dirty windows, illuminating the dust that hung in the air.

Deb cast a quick glance into the bare kitchen before turning down the long hallway. Brown stains were splashed across the white of the bathtub. It was blood, that had been left untouched for many years.

Deb exhaled slowly, keeping her gun steady at her side.

At the end of the hallway was an ajar door. It was splintered and littered with bullet holes. Deb cautiously eased into what must have once been a bedroom. There was only a heavy oak wardrobe in the room. It had also been a victim of bullets.

She heard the front door open.

"Deb?" Mickey called.

"All clear," she shouted back, turning and leaving the room, making sure the door shut behind her.

* * *

 **A/N: Heyyyyy, fellas. I'm not dead! Finally surfaced from sophomore year of university. Have the summer ahead of me, and hopefully finishing this story. Sorry to leave y'all hanging for so long! 3**


	5. Chapter 5

It was less than half an hour later when a dark car eased up the driveway. Molly Booker exited the vehicle. Her face was far more gaunt than Deb remembered, and she had lost weight.

Booker limped towards the cabin. Deb went out to meet her.

"Deb," Booker greeted.

"Little Wolf. You look tired," Deb shook her hand firmly. Molly flashed her a mirthless smile before her eyes trailed warily over the cabin.

"Been a long time since I've been here," she murmured softly, ignoring her last comment.

"Do you know anything about the blood in the bath tub?" Deb wondered. Molly blinked once, obviously a thousand miles away.

"Yeah. It's Trench Mauser's. Didn't realize it hadn't been cleaned," Molly ran a hand through her hair, "Sorry about that. After the clusterfuck that happened, I left for a while."

Deb brushed off her apologies.

"No worries."

"Heard there's been some trouble with the CIA," Molly changed the subject. Deb glanced over her shoulder at the house. Mickey was inside, trying to settle the children down. They were surly and silent, used to the constant movement between safe houses and handlers.

"Drummer's moved up the ladder. New guy is trying to pull some shit. I don't know. These kids need ta be kept safe—"

Molly's face softened.

"We'll take care of it, Deb."

* * *

"Barney, what the fuck is going on?" Billy demanded as Barney dropped onto a barstool.

"Calm down, Kid, you'll give yourself an aneurysm," Barney drawled, folding his hands in front of him. Billy leaned on the bar, his hands gripping the ledge tightly.

"Why did my wife leave the house like a bat out of hell?" Billy asked in a low voice, "And don't say you don't know. She only ever drops everything because you ask."

Barney glanced over his shoulder at the man in the suit sitting in the corner booth, trying to go unnoticed.

"Try to keep your head, Kid. We've all got to act as normal as possible," Barney said quietly. Billy looked away, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

"Why do you keep dragging her into this, Barney?" Billy asked.

"She'll be fine. Nothing dangerous, Kid."

"Nothing dangerous? You've got somebody _following_ you!" Billy hissed. Barney pursed his lips.

"I didn't force her to do anything, Kid."

* * *

Deb bounced her leg anxiously as Mickey unloaded groceries from Molly's car.

"You know where the IRA is going to end up putting them?" Molly asked Deb softly. The older woman folded her arms across her chest.

"No. They haven't contacted us."

"They're going to be watching the team," Molly told her gravely, "It's only a matter of time before they start looking in on me and Billy, find this old house."

"I _know_ , Booker. Christ."

Molly was silent as Deborah stewed. They stood there for several minutes as Mickey set about making supper. Molly's phone chimed in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

"It's Billy," she said apologetically, "I need to get home. I'll check in when I can. Be safe, Deb."

"You too, Booker."

* * *

 _God, it's so cold_. She couldn't feel her feet. Her limbs were stiff and immobile. Hot blood washed down her arms. The ropes were cut, and fire gripped her and lifted her away from her brothers.

Deb shot up from her sleeping bag. Cold sweat had soaked her, clinging to her tank top. Her shoulders shook as she sucked in a ragged breath.

 _Just breathe, Debbie. It wasn't blood. They didn't bleed out, remember? They froze._

 _It was your mother who bled out_ , a helpful internal voice supplied.

"Fuck," she sunk back onto the floor. Her sleeping bag was damp from sweat. A floorboard creaked and her hand snapped to her gun. Mickey's silhouette appeared in the mouth of the hallway. Even in the semi darkness, she could feel his eyes burning into her.

Deb rose on shaky knees and stumbled towards the entryway. Mickey followed her closely.

The air was bitter and cold, just not quite as cold as the dream had been.

"What time is it?" she asked as he closed the front door behind them.

"'Round five, I'd say," he allowed quietly.

 _Jesus, Debbie. You want to try and get more than a few hours of sleep?_

"You can go back to sleep, if you want," she told him, folding her arms around herself. _Keep it together._

Mickey let out a slow breath.

"Debbie, come on now. What's eatin' at ye?" he asked gently. "Nightmares still giving ye grief?"

She nodded once. He wrapped one of his arms around her, pulling her close. _Like a warm blanket. There's no fire in his hands. You don't have frostbite._

"Maybe we should take a break, after we get this squared away, yeah?" he suggested

She smiled numbly.

"Could be a long break, Mick. I'm not sure the CIA will want to throw any more jobs our way after this cluster."

"True. Maybe it's time to retire," he mused. She breathed out a laugh.

"I don't know if I can stop, Mick."

He pressed a kiss to her hair.

"I know, lass, I know."

* * *

Mickey soon went back inside, leaving her sitting on the stoop to wait for the sun rise. Warm light filtered through the trees, and the woods began to stir.

The door swung open, but Deb didn't turn. Dory dropped onto the stoop next to her, wrapped in an overlarge sweater.

Debbie pinned her with a critical look. She was aged beyond thirteen years. Living life on the run had done that to her.

"You work for the CIA," Dory stated bluntly. Deb swallowed hard and looked away from the accusing hazel eyes.

"What tipped you off?" Deb wondered idly.

"You woke me up. Heard you and Mickey talking," Dory informed her coolly. "The CIA has been after my dad for years."

"Yeah, so I've heard," Deb ran a hand through her hair in aggravation.

"That night at the cottage… You killed Jamie and the others?"

Deb couldn't look at her, so she focused on a squirrel in an oak tree, several yards away. She swallowed hard.

"Yeah, Dory, we did."

"Were you going to kill us?" Dory asked, her voice trembling. Deb's head snapped around to look at her.

" _No._ That was _never_ —" She broke off, steeling herself. "Mickey and I… The CIA employs us to save children that are in danger, usually cartel kidnappings, mafia wars… We were told that you and your brothers had been taken." Deborah stretched out her legs, wishing like hell she had a shot of liquor to numb the sour taste the words left in her mouth.

She did not enjoy killing, contrary to popular belief. The IRA bodyguards were hardly innocent, but they had only been protecting children—

"When we realized you hadn't been kidnapped, but we had killed your only protection… We couldn't just leave you there. Mickey used to run with the IRA, we got in front of it… We're supposed to take care of you until the IRA fixes up another safe house."

Dory watched her with wary eyes.

"And now?"

"The CIA is after us, because Mickey and I bailed on the job and took you with us," Deborah told her.

"What's going to happen?" Dory asked after a long pause.

"We'll keep you safe until the IRA comes to get you, things will go back to normal."

"What about you and Mickey?"

Deborah shrugged once.

"We'll figure it out when we get to it."

Dory was silent.

"Thank you for telling me. Not a lot of people are honest when I ask them what's going to happen to us," Dory finally said.

Deb forced herself to smile at her.

"You should go eat some breakfast, Dory."


End file.
